


Perfect Little Soldier

by silentsonata



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crowley As Raphael (Good Omens), Crowley Was Raphael Before He Fell (Good Omens), Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Memory Loss, Pining, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2020-08-14 04:54:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20186599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentsonata/pseuds/silentsonata
Summary: When Heaven figures out that Crowley is Raphael, they take him from Hell. More importantly, they take him from Aziraphale. Now, with four Archangels, Heaven gears up to start another Armaggedon on their own, with Crowley as their greatest weapon.But with Crowley's memories of their life together gone, can Aziraphale make him remember who he is before the peace they've worked for is shattered?No plan, no matter how Great or Ineffable, was ever meant to turn out this way.





	1. God Maketh, God Breaketh

It only took three words to make Aziraphale.

They had been drinking together again, and Crowley had thrown his exultant arms out in some great revelation in the middle of a rant about socks, empty wine bottle in hand. He had been silent for a moment, enraptured by the action itself. Then he cackled loudly, and Aziraphale might have thought him possessed if he didn’t know any better.

“I love you?” Crowley had questioned through half-lidded eyes, looking over the top edge of his sunglasses at him, and Aziraphale’s heart forgot to beat. “I love you,” he had repeated himself, slurring, smirking drunkenly, “I love you, Aziraphale.”

“You what?” Aziraphale remembered answering, “It’s…” He was short of breath, but whether from the alcohol or from Crowley was anyone’s guess. “It’s bad to say things you don’t mean, Crowley.”

“Bad, hm?” Crowley’s eyes were mischievous, the yellow of a child’s raincoat as they splashed about in the rain. “S’what I am,” he whined, “And who said I didn’t mean it? I’ll tell the whole world about it if you don’t believe me.” Crowley, considerably more drunk than Aziraphale, had clambered up onto the table and proceeded to scream “I love Aziraphale” so loudly that people halfway across London stirred in their sleep, until the angel in question had turned just about as red as Crowley’s hair.

“Stop that right now!” Aziraphale had said bitterly, tears coming to his eyes as he seemed to withdraw into his chair, “That’s cruel.” A crystal tear fell. “You can’t just go around, saying things like that, not taking responsibility for what you say.” He had sniffed, cheeks still burning, and the tears had been cool as they ran down his face. Crowley’s brow furrowed in concern.

He stepped down unsurely from the table and approached him. Crowley bent down, cradling Aziraphale’s face in his hands. “Who said I wouldn’t take responsibility?” And they kissed. Crowley had tasted intoxicating, like sweet wine with flowers, and there was the faint saltiness of tears. Crowley was firm everywhere that Aziraphale was soft when they hugged, standing at last, and Aziraphale could’ve melted into a puddle of love-struck angel when Crowley kissed him on the forehead.

It only took three words to break Aziraphale.

They had an agreement after that. Stay out of each other’s way but stay in touch. But when Aziraphale hadn’t heard from Crowley in weeks and was getting worried, he received a summons from Gabriel. Aziraphale tore the letter up without reading it. He would have ignored it all if the phone in his bookshop hadn’t rung later that very day. Gabriel’s voice was dripping with confidence, and Aziraphale learned that there was someone that Heaven wanted him to meet. If only he’d taken the hint and realised that there was something wrong.

He was never one to skip an invitation to a party, much less forgo the chance to greet someone. Besides, after Armaggedidn’t, they wouldn’t do anything to him, right?

Aziraphale remembered why he hated going to Heaven as soon as he arrived. The all-too-clean walls, the smooth marble floors, even the colour that had drained from his clothes as he entered told him that he didn’t belong here. But when he saw long red hair and a familiar smile, Aziraphale froze.

Surely that wasn’t Crowley the demon, Crowley the snake, Crowley who wore all black and red and told him that he loved him with a honeyed voice, Crowley who shouted at plants and smiled when he watched Aziraphale eat? Surely that wasn’t him, dressed in a white tailored suit with a silver watch?

But Aziraphale couldn’t control himself, and he ran for the first time in years as he charged to embrace Crowley. “What have they done to you?” he began to say, “Look at you, all–” He was gently pushed away with soft hands and a gentle gaze. “Crowley?”

The red-haired angel shook his head apologetically.

“Who are you?” Aziraphale froze, reeling. Those words, said by those familiar lips, in that familiar voice, were strangely gentle. Yet there was no doubt that it _was_ Crowley. That little fiddle with the hem of his clothes, the way he stood stiffly as though he was accustomed to slouching, even the little kind quirk of his eyebrow when he was trying to be nice. It was all so completely and undeniably _Crowley_.

But Crowley was a demon through and through, Aziraphale thought. No, it simply _couldn't_ be Crowley.

Gabriel emerged from beside the red-haired figure, smiling all too happily. “Ah, Aziraphale,” he crooned, “Nice to see you here.” He took a moment to gaze at the not-Crowley. “Raphael, meet Aziraphale. Aziraphale, this is Raphael. _The_ Raphael, you know, the one we lost a while back. Figured out he’d been on the other side all along. You might have known him as… Crowley?” There was a sadistic glint in his eyes as he shrugged nonchalantly. “Couldn’t really let Hell run around with _two _Archangels, could we? But we got him back now, as you can see. Back, all in one piece.”

But Aziraphale’s heart broke into little pieces, too little to pick up, but big and sharp enough to make him bleed. He could hear the echoing sound of it shattering, eerily clear, on the cold hard floor of Heaven. No doubt, Gabriel could hear it too, because he smiled even wider. But how, how, Aziraphale thought, how could Heaven rip yet something else from him? How could it take the only thing that it had left him with?

Aziraphale was used to seeing his identity melt away from him in Heaven. But to see Crowley, not this Raphael they spoke of, ripped away from everything that Aziraphale had fallen in love with, all the memories they had shared together, was inexplicably unfair. Aziraphale would have given everything to make sure that Crowley didn’t lose what made him himself. But now, he knew that not even his everything would have been enough. The prickly tears that came to his eyes accused his smiling lips of being a liar when Crowley extended his hand in welcome.

“Nice to meet you, Aziraphale. Let’s get along.”

Aziraphale couldn’t hide the quiver of his lip as he shook Crowley’s hand as a stranger.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you too."


	2. Love Thy Enemy

As Aziraphale descended from Heaven into his bookshop, the gentle glide downwards felt more like a Fall. Capital F. And for the first time, the tight and cosy arrangement that he loved so much closed in him like a boa constrictor’s fatal embrace. For all he cared, the rich and mellow shades of brown and malt that covered the bookstore could have been varying shades of cardboard.

Cardboard.

The foundations of Aziraphale’s world had turned from young saplings to old cardboard, ready to collapse with the lightest breath of wind, to crumble at the most delicate dusting of rain. He had never been prepared to live a life without Crowley, who might as well have been the very definition of life itself. Exuberant. Gritty. Unpredictable. Crowley was always so _alive_, and Aziraphale had never been able to imagine him as anything but.

Only now, he didn’t need to imagine. Heaven always got what it wanted. The good guys always won. If they couldn’t kill him with hellfire, they’d try something else. _Well done_, Aziraphale wanted to scream upwards, _you got me! Absolutely dazzling job you’ve done, taking what I loved the most and making him just like the rest of you. Almost seems like something Hell would do! _Perhaps what they really wanted to do was kill him from the inside, Prometheus-like, heart bared open for white doves to tear away at each day. But angels were beings of love, or so Aziraphale thought. What about _this _love made it so wrong? What part of this love made it so damnable?

It was getting harder to breathe. Aziraphale threw open a set of windows, and the cold air that hit his face left him far too awake.

Gabriel’s words still rang in his ears. “The Lord said to love thy enemy,” he had said, sweetly enough to rot whole sets of teeth, “But these are the enemies we were made to kill, Aziraphale. Now, don’t be too hard on yourself because you couldn’t do it. Not even Hell could. But the Almighty always finds a way. Always.” Then Raphael had turned and given him a genuine smile, blissfully unaware of their exchange, and Aziraphale crumbled a little more inside. His eyes hadn’t changed at all.

Perhaps that was a part of Crowley they couldn’t wipe away, the same way that Crowley was a part of Aziraphale that no-one could wipe away. He looked at the novelty mug on his desk, full of hot chocolate that had gone cold. How long ago? Minutes? Hours? Days? Aziraphale paced the store as if he were trying to out-walk his problems.

Surely, if he believed enough, if he wished hard enough, if he tried hard enough, he’d stir up some bit of Crowley that had slipped through the cracks. Surely, if he loved Crowley enough, he could love some part of him back. The erratic footfalls gradually steadied into a rhythm of collected anger, then just disappeared mid-step.

Aziraphale stormed back to Heaven, mustering as much dignity as anyone who stormed a place could muster. He marched up to Gabriel, accusing finger jabbing at his chest, trying to hide the fact that he was shaking slightly as he looked up to speak.

“We need to talk.”

“Welcome back, Aziraphale.” Read: _Move. You’re in my way. _Gabriel kept walking forwards, pushing Aziraphale back.

“This is about Crowley.” They stopped.

“Raphael. We don’t speak the name of filth here, remember?”

“I’m here to bargain.” Gabriel quirked an eyebrow. “Well, see, you got him here to fight your war. But if I can get him to remember who he was, you leave us out of the war. If I can’t, I’ll fight in it too.” Gabriel laughed loudly, and Aziraphale knew that he was the one being laughed at.

Gabriel mockingly wiped a tear from his eye. “Look at you now, Aziraphale. So _desperate_. So _lovestruck_. And to think you were once the Angel of the Eastern Gate of Eden.” He bent over a little, leaning over Aziraphale. “Look how the tables have turned. Little Principality, thinking he can take on the whole of Great Big Heaven. How – what’s that word you like so much? – ineffably _stupid_. I’ll take you up on it.”

Gabriel miracled up a document. “Says here,” he read, “that the Principality Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate, will do battle with the Angels in the Second Great War in the event that he is unable to recall the memories and mind of the Demon Crowley to the body of Archangel Raphael, without further interference from any party. In the event that he is successful, the Demon Crowley and the Principality Aziraphale shall be excluded from the conflict.” Gabriel signed it with his finger, and the paper sizzled with the smell of burnt pastries. He handed Aziraphale the contract.

Aziraphale took a last glance at it as he, quite possibly, used his finger to sign his life away in big, loopy letters. He returned the contract to Gabriel, who gave him a smile that knew too much. Gabriel snapped his fingers and told him to take a seat.

Aziraphale sat uneasily on the plush couch that had manifested behind him. A few minutes later, there was the light sound of footsteps, and Aziraphale looked up to see Crowley approaching, red hair falling like comet tails onto his shoulders, white trousers so tight that it _surely _took a few miracles to get them on and off.

“Aziraphale,” Raphael greeted, and Aziraphale wondered how the same word could sound so different without the mischievous smirk that was its partner in crime.

“Cr- Raphael. You remembered.”

“’Course I did!” There was that smile again, hitting Aziraphale like a tidal wave hits a child's sandcastle. “Well, they told me that you’d be showing me around before Armageddon came again. Said you’d give me a taste of the nice things on Earth before it disappeared.” Ah, so that was how Gabriel played it.

“Yes, I do fancy that I’ve been on Earth longer than any of the other angels here.” Aziraphale was stiff and awkward. Making conversation with Crowley had never been as hard as this. “But do, pray, tell me. What did they say you’d been before you got here recently?”

“Well, Gabriel says they forgave all my sins. Had to remove all the memories too. S’all for the better, I suppose. This is the Almighty giving me my shot at redemption, innit? And what better use of my time than to wipe Hell off the map?” Raphael grinned savagely. He had learnt quickly. Perhaps, as an Archangel, he had always been like that.

_I’m unforgivable_, Aziraphale remembered hearing as he nodded his head slowly. Raphael couldn’t have been more wrong. Neither of them had been forgiven. This was Heaven’s cruel pantomime, its own take on the paper ballerina and the tin soldier, and it would laugh as it watched them spiralling, dancing, burning in the fire until there was nothing left of them.

This was how Heaven punished love.


	3. Smile, Angel

The London streets seemed to be going out of their way to confuse Aziraphale that Saturday, riddling what should have been a familiar path with obstacles as he tried to make his way to St James’ Park. The absence of Crowley’s swagger, in which the relaxed swing of 1930’s jazz was embedded, was jarringly replaced by the strict one-two of Raphael’s white snakeskin boots clacking. Now, Aziraphale struggled to stay in front, forced to strut faster and faster in a way for which his body simply wasn’t designed. They weaved through the tightly-packed streets, dodging a mix of people, market stalls, and lampposts like two video game characters on a quest.

But if this was a video game, the smell of crepes wafting through the air was most certainly the music to the final battle.

“Stopping now, are we?”

Aziraphale’s face began to take the colour of strawberry jam. “No, no, of course not, sorry to dawdle.”

“Pray tell.” For a moment, Aziraphale expected him to act as if he wanted to sandpaper his tongue and proceed to convulse dramatically. He had to remind himself that this wasn’t Crowley, that if he really wanted it to be Crowley, he would have to get _Raphael_ to let down his guard. But Aziraphale still couldn’t afford to let himself believe that it wasn’t. If he expected the worst, the worst would come. Perhaps even if he didn’t, it would. The Almighty was unpredictable like that; perhaps She was the entity from whom Crowley got his spontaneity.

“Well, if you _must _know, food on Earth is absolutely delicious. In fact, why don’t I go and get us both a bite to eat?” Aziraphale didn’t wait for an answer before he marched up to the street stall that was making fresh crepes, ordering two crepes with strawberries and cream as he glanced behind him to check that Raphael was still there. Maybe it was the crepes that gave him the confidence. Maybe it was the fear that he would never see Crowley again, or the fear of another war. Aziraphale had sparks of hope in his heart, however disillusioned it might be, and he fanned the flames with relish.

Maybe he’d remember Paris, Aziraphale half-joked to himself. He wished that this was all some sort of horrible mistake, that this was just a joke that God was playing on him. _Un grande erreur._

Raphael was standing a few metres away, leaning against a lamppost like a character straight out of _Singing in the Rain_. He was glad that he’d miracled up a pair of sunglasses before. The sun was bright that day and the white of his clothes was reflecting its rays directly into his sensitive eyes. Aziraphale had gaped at him when they had met up as he was looking at some spectre from the past, and he pretended not to notice as his tour guide stared at him from the food stall.

It was fascinating to him that a smell alone could halt a divine being in its tracks. But the smell of fruit and frying batter had made him restless, nagging at some corner of his subconscious like the just-audible ticks of a clock. Raphael reasoned that it was because he’d never been down here with so many creatures around him, a far cry from the expanse of emptiness and minimalism of Heaven.

Raphael wasn’t sure whether the emptiness was eerie or holy when he had opened his eyes for the first time in Heaven, mind blank, looking up into the smiles of three angels from his seat. The tingling sensation of a miracled heal had wrapped around both his wrists like the fragmented memory of a rope, and he had looked down to see a torn black suit. The angels had said not to worry, that his normal attire had simply been dirtied. Raphael was sure they were right, but he felt he looked better in black.

When Aziraphale popped up to hand him the food in a neat paper wrapping, he took it with a smile and watched as Aziraphale puffed up cheerily. They were pushed onwards by the crowed, forced together at the shoulder by the people swarming in the same direction as them. Aziraphale’s shoulder was soft and warm, like a comforting recollection of an embrace.

They ended up sitting on a bench in front of St James’ Lake, absently watching ducks swim by.

“Why exactly do you ingest these… thin dough discs?”

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably in his seat at the Gabriel-esque words. Pins and needles covered his body as he saw lips that should've been Crowley’s describe his life with the cold realism of unfamiliarity. _No_, he had to remind himself, _you haven’t shared your whole life with Raphael. Crowley would never say anything like that. He wouldn’t. _“They’re crepes. French desserts,” he managed, “They taste good.” Aziraphale watched with horror as Raphael promptly unhinged his jaw and swallowed the crepe whole, paper wrapper and all. A child, having seen this sight not meant for mortal eyes, started to cry, and a loud high-pitched wail rang through the park.

Raphael’s eyebrow twitched in annoyance. “Glad those things will be gone soon, be far less of a bother then.” Aziraphale’s jaw would have unhinged too, if it could.

“You can’t just-”

“Hm? No, the food was fantastic. The outer casing was a little strange, though. Is all earthly food like that?”

“I’m talking about the child!”

“Ah, s’not like I’ll be the one getting rid of the kids anyway, why should I care?” Raphael waved his hand dismissively. “Should be focusing on how we’re going to win this war.” As Raphael’s hand returned to his thigh, Aziraphale felt the spark of hope in his heart die out. He hadn’t gotten through at all. The only thing left of that hope was a slowly dissipating smoke, and that too had disappeared.

It all hit home too fast.

This was Crowley’s body, sure, but it wasn’t Crowley he had been talking to. Aziraphale clenched his fists at how he had fooled himself, how he had been so gullible, so forgetful. Raphael sat up straight, taking up space efficiently whereas Crowley would have sprawled out across the bench, limbs hanging off it like vines in an untended garden.

“Yes, win the war,” Aziraphale said quietly, eyes focused on the little ripples the ducks made as they paddled about. He was a lover, not a fighter. No, the fighting had always been done by Crowley. In fact, this was the first thing he’d ever had to fight for by himself. So why had the Almighty made it so hard for him? Wasn’t She merciful and loving? Wasn’t She forgiving and just? What part of this was fair? _Best not to speculate, _his own words haunted him.

Without Crowley, he was already losing.

Raphael’s hands were warm as they held Aziraphale’s. “S’no big deal,” he smiled confidently, bloodlust thinly veiled, “I’ll protect you from them. I’ll protect everyone. We’re the good guys.” Aziraphale felt as if he was looking at a younger version of himself, full of disillusioned trust in Heaven, full of naïve hope, full of confidence that God would _listen_. He’d given up on that a long time ago.

Aziraphale listened, mind far off, as Raphael continued to talk, a perfect role-model for the rest of the angels, simply brimming with Heaven’s propaganda. _They’ll destroy you_, Aziraphale recalled saying to Crowley, and it had been true. They’d destroyed him and left just enough of a recognisable husk for Aziraphale to chase after.

But, if not even Crowley could convince Aziraphale, what hope did Aziraphale have of convincing Raphael? _But now you both know that you love each other_, he tried to reassure himself, _and love will conquer all. It always has. _

Crowley and he had started off as angels together. Now Crowley had returned to his side and Aziraphale was left by himself, a lone angel guarding his tiny principality with a flickering sword.

Aziraphale was flickering too.

Aziraphale didn’t remember leading Raphael back to the bookshop, transfixed by the disenchantment that had fallen on him like a lead weight. A lead balloon, perhaps. He bid Raphael goodbye, watching him turn his back and move to the edge of the pavement. The sound of the white boots against the pavement was clear, like the sound of glass breaking.

Raphael smiled in farewell as he turned to face the bookshop again. As Aziraphale watched him look up and ascend in a beam of light, he had a sinking feeling. Why was Raphael’s smile so sickeningly sweet? Why was it patronising like it had been used to make thousands of false promises before?

Raphael wasn’t Crowley, and Aziraphale didn’t know what he would do if he couldn’t bring Crowley back. His body started to shake even though it was still warm, and he held in the lonely sobs just long enough to close the bookshop’s door.


	4. Love Burns, but Memories Brand

That night was full of crumpled paper and frustrated scribbling. His nib tore through the page on multiple occasions, but Aziraphale stopped caring after the first few tears of the page. The salty tears kept coming though, hot as hellfire on the surface of his skin, yet colder than the marble of Heaven only moments later. _What wishful thinking_. His bottom lip trembled, and he bit it until it bled, head pounding with a heartbeat much too loud for comfort.

It was long past dawn when Aziraphale finished his plan. The list was long and expansive – what one would expect from six thousand years of friendship. Could Aziraphale dare to call it love? On any other day as the clock struck eleven in the morning, he would’ve treated himself to brunch.

And so, the game of cat and mouse began, leaving Aziraphale to question at times whether he was just grasping at the shadows of mice, with some sort of inevitable mousetrap waiting to ensnare his hands. He couldn’t tell if anything was making a difference. Perhaps he was just too stupid to tell. Perhaps, he clenched his teeth, he didn’t know Crowley well enough to be able to tell.

The next time they met, Raphael had been taken by Aziraphale to see some plants in an apartment. There wasn’t anything special about them, just extremely green, he thought. Cared for better than most plants. He fancied that they shook out of reverence when they were in his presence, even though there was a strange feeling of satisfaction when he looked at their blemish-free leaves. A voice seemed to whisper in his ear, crying, desperate, pitiful. Supplicant-like.

_No, no, no, you’ve got to be perfect. Can’t be anything less. How else would you be accepted by-_

The pain of a shower of shooting stars had shot through Raphael’s head, and he had scowled. He declared that he hated these things and ignored the crumpling of Aziraphale’s face as he stalked out of the black minimalistic apartment. He didn’t hear Aziraphale’s footsteps follow him until a few moments had passed, and he looked back to see Aziraphale staring at the plants, apology-tinged lips snapping up into a smile as soon as he saw him looking. Too slow.

Raphael kept a closer eye on Aziraphale after that, watching him for the signs of his true motives. When Aziraphale had brought him in front of a vintage black car, Raphael had declined to drive it, lying that it felt like the vehicle belonged to someone else. He observed, eyes keen and almost predatory, how Aziraphale stiffened. The next week brought a visit to a church that had been bombed in the 1940s. The week after that was an ancient history museum with exhibits on Arthurian times and ancient Rome. As their meetings grew more frequent, so did Raphael’s excuses for not interacting with Aziraphale’s proposals.

He found out a lot this way. Firstly, he learnt that Aziraphale wanted to evoke memories of some sort in him. Secondly, that Aziraphale deeply cared about this person. Thirdly, that this person must have some ties to Raphael himself. That would explain the pain, like a searing briefcase handle in his palm at the church and like chainmail all over his body in the museum.

The hurt was a brand on his body, though it left no mark. And Raphael heard more voices too, and they grew louder each time he tried to ignore them.

_What else am I gonna be, an aardvark?_

_You have sought the Black Knight, foolish one. But you have found your death._

_Toss you for Edinburgh._

_Lift home?_

Something slipped out the day that they were having dinner at the Ritz. Rather, the day that Raphael was watching Aziraphale have steak at the Ritz. “So, who was this Crowley fellow you mistook me for a while back?”

Aziraphale almost spat out his food. “Him? Oh, nobody. Don’t even like him.” Something squeezed Raphael’s heart, and he was compelled to voice words foreign to his lips, yet familiar. They sounded like salty tears and papercuts and escape and hope.

“Alpha Centauri.” Aziraphale dropped his cutlery with a clatter and forgot to apologise.

“Oh, oh my God. Crowley. You remember.” Aziraphale reached over, hand tracing the place just in front of Raphael’s right ear. There the pain was again, snaking its way down, burning its path with sauntering insolence despite the gentle touch of Aziraphale’s finger on his skin.

“What?”

“Alpha Centauri. You made it. We were going to-” Aziraphale blabbered, failing to contain his excitement as he looked Raphael straight in the eyes.

“I didn’t make it. At least, I don’t remember making it, but that’s not something an angel would forget easily, right?” Aziraphale stared at him in horror. They had wiped more of Crowley than he had thought. He stammered, looking for the right words, missing them with each attempt to grasp them.

“Sorry,” he mustered.

“S’that what you were using me for?” Raphael laughed cruelly with realisation, and the world froze around them; waiters suspended in rushing to dropped cutlery, people mid-bite, others mid-speech. “Trying to rekindle the sparks of a dead flame, are you?” He watched Aziraphale flinch, smiling. “Isn’t that rather selfish of you, angel?” The term of endearment sounded acidic from Raphael’s mouth, somehow more venomous despite his angelic status. “Well, I’ll have you know,” he snarled, “that I only answer to the Almighty and Heaven. Not you. Not this Crowley person. You can forget it.”

He stood up and pushed his seat in. With one snap of his fingers, the dropped cutlery polished and righted itself, and Aziraphale’s steak reverted to its initial uneaten state. Raphael leaned over the table, towering above the seated Aziraphale. “Look at you. You glutton. S’no wonder this Crowley person left you. Keep stuffing your stupid mouth as you wait for Armageddon to come again.

"Maybe you should do something more productive with your time. Like training. Make it easier for us to win, why don't you?

“Maybe you’re not even one of us anymore.” Raphael didn’t need to voice the words that he knew Aziraphale was hearing beneath his words. _I despise people like you the most. Always thinking of yourselves, never noticing when you’re using other people._

“And to think I thought I could trust you, was willing to protect you. Liar,” Raphael scoffed. “Disgusting.”

With another snap of his fingers as he turned his back and marched out, time was set back in motion. People carried on as if nothing had happened, aside from the waiters who were _quite certain_ that they had been going to clean up dropped cutlery. But the essence of things had changed for Aziraphale now. The food was unappetising, the Ritz uncomfortable, the smell of cooking pungent.

Raphael wasn’t coming back. There weren’t any second chances. War was inevitable, and Aziraphale wished God’s plan wasn’t so ineffable. But it had to be, else he would have known that he had affected Raphael, that he had softly awoken Crowley's memories. Aziraphale sought Her guidance for what must have been the millionth time in a month, offering up his heart, bare and bleeding. The response was silence again.

The world went far too fast for Aziraphale, and he had been left behind, alone in the rising dust.


	5. Th'innocent Flower and the Serpent Under't

Aziraphale’s crusade was over. He hadn’t been able to get Crowley to rise again and now all he _could _do was sit in his bookshop and wait for Gabriel’s summons, drinking tea like some terrible excuse for a Southern Pansy. That was all he had the heart to do, though, since every bookshelf in the place had a Crowley-shaped imprint on it from all the leaning he’d done. Every book had been traced by Crowley’s fingers, leaving a serpentine trail of fingerprints across the bookshop, like a map to a treasure chest which someone else had dug up already. Even the walls, so accustomed to reflecting the habitual call of “Angel!” and the sound of the doors slamming open in a more-than-dramatic entrance, lacked the sense of anticipation they typically held, as if they knew that they wouldn’t hear Crowley’s voice again.

The bookshop seemed to have given up as well. Aziraphale had closed it, knowing deep down that the floorboards creaking, even under the feet of fellow book lovers, would have sounded discordant and ominous to his ears. He watched the bookshop’s charisma, cosiness, and comfort wither away before his very eyes, and he didn’t have the energy left to help it, much less himself.

So, when Gabriel himself came down and barged his way into his establishment, Aziraphale was almost glad to see his smug smirk and derisive gaze. He almost rejoiced when he thought that the end was near. That is, until Gabriel opened his mouth and spoke.

“I’m not going to say that I told you so, but I told you so.” His smirk grew wider, becoming almost predatory. Aziraphale’s hands clenched into fists and he put down his cup of tea to step towards him.

“Very well. I’m ready.”

“If only you had been so lovely and compliant _before_ all this had happened,” Gabriel crooned as if to a small child, “Then we could’ve avoided _all this_ trouble! How much easier would that have been for _all _of us?” Aziraphale stayed silent, unwilling to add fuel to the fire. “Looks like you’ve learnt your lesson, little one.” Gabriel put his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders, gripping them a little tighter than necessary. As soon as he looked up, a bright beam of light appeared from the ceiling, engulfing the two of them. In the next moment, the bookshop was empty, and the cup of tea left on the desk steamed, abandoned.

“Welcome to Heaven,” Gabriel said like a tour guide – a terrible one, at that. “You know your way around, I’m sure. Remember to report to the front desk for your uniform and equipment. Enjoy your stay!” He flashed a smile, displaying two neat rows of perfectly white teeth, and Aziraphale had never wanted to punch someone in the mouth more. He tried to pull himself together and act as if he wasn’t dragging himself to the circulation desk, even if Gabriel had already turned and left and there was no-one left to judge him.

“Uh, hello,” he began, trying for a moustached angel’s attention, “I’m Aziraphale. Principality of the Eastern Gate of Eden, flaming sword, you know?” A little part of him died when that very angel looked up, recognising him from his first enlistment for Holy Battle, last Armageddon. Aziraphale crumpled a little more when the said angel laughed as if he had just seen the punchline to the funniest joke in the words.

“We know all about you, don’t worry. Come to prove you’re less than some sorry excuse for an angel?” He laughed at his own joke and thrust a bundle of clothes out at Aziraphale. “Here’s your uniform. I trust you have the sword at last?”

Aziraphale nodded grimly and summoned it from whichever postal locker in England it was lying in. As it manifested in his hand, he reached forward and tried to take the clothes, but the other angel didn’t let go.

“It would be better for all of us if you died this time round,” the moustached angel said, leaning in, and released his grip. Aziraphale almost dropped the bundle. Another time, long before this, he would have returned a civil retort, well-masked by politeness and a warm smile. Now, he wondered if the other angel was right as he turned to go to the training grounds.

In the first Holy War, these had been acres and acres of fields. Now, the training grounds had been condensed into a single gymnasium and a shooting range, full of sparring angels and their bloodlust. They moved as one engine of war, eager to fight, but this same machine grinded to a jarring halt when Aziraphale stepped in.

All angels had more than two eyes, and Aziraphale resigned himself to receiving all the pairs of burning gazes as he strode down. Amidst the whispers of hellfire and Earthly nativity, he miracled his new clothes on and accepted his fate as another nameless soldier in Heaven’s army.

Meanwhile, Gabriel returned to his office, his strides victorious and strong as if the battle had already been won. And indeed, half of it had been: Heaven’s four Archangels now outnumbered Hell’s one. Given Raphael’s recent animosity towards Aziraphale, Gabriel was rather confident that he’d, figuratively speaking, tamed the dark horse. As he approached the Archangels’ quarters, a few floors up from the main entrance, he sensed Raphael’s presence with relief.

The doors slid open with a slight mechanical whirr as he approached, revealing Raphael. He was perched in an armchair, hands crossed neatly in his lap, and quite literally glowing as he meditated, each fibre of his being channelled with the Presence. Raphael stirred as Gabriel’s footsteps got louder and opened his eyes.

“Aw, hello there, Gabe.” His glow faded as he spoke.

“Gabriel,” he corrected, “But I was just looking for you, Raphael. Care to take a little walk with me? Have a look at the training grounds, perhaps? Maybe we could get them more in the spirit, you know?”

Raphael smiled and got up, brushing imaginary dust off his lap. “Perfect timing. S’just thinking I’d been sitting for too long. Had a few questions I wanted to ask too.” He followed Gabriel out the door, and they strode down the short hall to where the escalators were. Their footsteps would have been in time if Raphael hadn’t developed a slight strange, almost serpentine swagger after he came back from earth. His walk had become just a little syncopated to the rhythm of Heaven, but neither of them noticed this. “So, you know, being Archangel of Healing and all that, I was wondering if I was going to be on the front lines. You seem to have it all planned out.”

“Of _course,_ you’ll be on the front lines,” Gabriel laughed, “Why else do you think I’ve made you the ambassador for our troops? We _love_ you up here. Listen – Archangel comes back to Heaven with a vengeance and leads army to victory, the perfect soldier cleansing the defiled Earth – doesn’t that sound like a good story to you?”

“S’ppose you’re right.” Ever so slightly, Raphael did not suppose that Gabriel was right. Somehow, he felt it wasn’t fine to have so many people hurt, that war wasn’t the best solution to things. Because war was futile, he had realised from experience. _What experience?_ a little voice in his head asked him. He ignored it. Sending angels out to be cannon fodder, letting them die as a result of a hateful conflict, innocent lives full of potential squandered to be fertiliser for barren ground – it all seemed _wrong_. “_The Divine Plan_,” Raphael continued, waving his hands as if making a banner, “Innit?”

But the Word had told them to love each other, to love their enemies, not to kill them like they were planning to do. Raphael shook his head a little as if that would clear his thoughts. But it was _right_, he had been told, to kill demons. They deserved it. It was their fault that they had fallen from Heaven, and now they had to pay. That’s what Gabriel said. That’s what Michael said, too. He trusted them.

“Why?” Raphael asked after a little silence.

“Why what?”

“Why does there have to be a battle?”

“What do you _mean_ ‘why does there have to be a battle?’” Gabriel narrowed his eyes in suspicion, their amethyst colour cutting and sharp in the constant sunlight of Heaven, “We are _angels_ – we exist to counteract the forces of evil.”

“No, no, what I mean is… won’t there be an imbalance?”

“Imbalance,” Gabriel scoffed, “_You _think there’ll be an imbalance? It’s natural that we triumph over Hell. If you think about it, in an ideal world, there wouldn’t be any evil. That’s the best state of things, and if you’re saying that something perfect is imbalanced, well, I wouldn’t be quite sure what to think of _you_.” Raphael shuddered. To be perfectly honest, he thought that people couldn’t be _completely_ _good_ until they had the chance to be completely_ evil_.

Raphael recognised the danger in his questions and shut his mouth.

The training fields were turbulent with the frenzy of bloodthirst. When they heard the hubbub from the floor above, Gabriel had turned to Raphael with a grin. “Looks like they’re already quite in the spirit.” But when Raphael entered the training field, he felt sickened by the sight of angels going at each other’s throats, doubtless in the scene of a mock battle, but it was plain to see that their hate needed to go somewhere, and that this was the place for letting it out. None of the angels noticed that two Archangels had walked in, and they carried on.

Raphael waved a hand. All the bruises and scrapes and cuts on each of the angels were healed, and only then did they stop in confusion and look to the entrance. Raphael and Gabriel mounted the bleachers together, and all eyes followed them, half in fear, half in anticipation.

Gabriel cleared his throat, and his voice naturally boomed across the training facility. “Everyone. _This_ is Archangel Raphael. Perhaps some of you have met him already. By Her Grace, he has been raised and returned to us, and he is to lead you forth in the battle when Michael is battling the beasts of Hell.” The crowd let forth a riotous roar of delight. “He has a few words to say to you.” He motioned for Raphael to step forward.

“Hullo everyone,” Raphael smiled brightly, voice just as loud as Gabriel, “I hope you’re all feeling better now that your wounds’ve been healed.” There were a few whoops of agreement. “S’you know, we’re to take on Hell in a battle to decide it all, part of the Divine Plan ‘n’ everything. We’ve got to be prepared to, uh, smite and cleanse, because that’s what’s right, eh?” Raphael cringed, regretting already his choice to come and rally the troops for something he didn’t believe wholly in himself. “But what I think is most important is that we stay together, one united force to defeat our enemy. Together, we as stronger, smarter, more resilient. Together, we will triumph. Now, get back to what you were doing, and play nice.”

Raphael gave a weak fist-pump as the crowd roared in support. Gabriel patted him on the back and praised him, but these encouraging words were lost on him when he saw Aziraphale pushed out of the free-for-all, already covered with new bruises and wounds. He had only been using his shield, evident from the very not-flaming sword in his limp right hand and his look of terror. He ran to them as they descended the bleachers.

“Oh, Raphael-”

Gabriel blocked him off. “Sorry, Aziraphale,” he sneered down, “It’s over. Don’t bother trying.” Raphael looked away, and his heart constricted a little harder than it needed to when he remembered the utter betrayal that he’d felt only a few weeks ago. But he was an Archangel, the Archangel of Healing, no less, and he had grown to almost forgive Aziraphale over time. It was clear that he was hurting too.

Aziraphale brimmed with frustration. “Step. Aside. I’m not talking to you.”

“No can do, _Angel_.”

“I’m just a Principality.” Aziraphale gritted his teeth. “But I. Know more about the Greater Good. Than. You.”

Raphael gently stepped beside Gabriel to try and ease the tension. “S’okay,” he said, meeting Aziraphale’s eyes, “I forgive you. We all hurt, and I just hope you can find peace. Soon enough, we’ll have to fight.” Raphael looked at Gabriel and found a source of unbridled courage in his gaze. “M’glad that you’re not someone I have to kill. Would be a real shame.”

Raphael reiterated to himself that the demons deserved to die, that they had caused him to become tainted, that he hated them, hated them, _hated them_. As he did so, he cast a backward glance at Aziraphale, following Gabriel to the exit.

Aziraphale caught his gaze, and it was cold and hateful. He was left staring at an empty doorway when they had left, and threw himself back into the melee, yelling, tears mingled with his battle cry. His sword ignited with red flames that burned with his desperation to live.

Crowley had become Heaven’s perfect little soldier, and Aziraphale was scared that he would have to helplessly watch him fall again. This time, Crowley might not get back up.


	6. Fight Neither for Hate nor Love, but for Eternity

New York, Rio, London, and Tokyo are often credited as cities that never sleep. Heaven, in which there is quite literally no such thing as night, certainly put all of them to shame. Everything was constantly being arranged into immaculate order – if not, it would be beaten into line or simply cast out, whether object or angel. But none of these perfect, neat, tidy arrangements were of any use in the slightest when the call to battle began.

It started with the heralds’ trumpeting, loud and clear and brash like the morning sun.

The rows of angels channelling their holy power, arranged like ants subjugated by the whims of a child, scattered as if an earthquake had struck the ground on which they stood. They almost climbed over each other in their rush to reach the armoury, all sense of cohesion lost, as if they had turned human in their disorder. And it was apt, Raphael thought as he watched from the Archangels’ precinct, that their neatness had disappeared. War was messy and unpredictable, and they needed to be the same if they wanted to win.

Raphael took the time to wonder if winning was really what he wanted. Though the descriptors used for war often included words like glorious, brave, and dignified, he remembered from somewhere that it was futile and messy and divisive and terrifying. He didn’t remember winning – in war, was there ever really a winner? Weren’t angels meant to love and heal, not kill and subjugate?

There was something he was forgetting, and it nipped at him like a stray dog.

He snapped his fingers, and his staff appeared in his hand as he was clad in golden armour. The breastplate slowly grew hot to the touch as it was warmed by the sun, and Raphael unfurled his wings, stretching them out behind his shining figure. They were a brilliant blue, delicate like a watercolour painting, with the lustre of stars encrusting the night sky like lapis lazuli on a crown, yet bold and commanding respect like a centurion. The individual feathers looked as if they had been cut from the fabric of the outer cosmos, where the first nebulae still lie, and they all but glowed with the promise of a triumphant tomorrow. What had Aziraphale said about making the stars?

Raphael was alone now, with Michael and Gabriel and Uriel having gone down to call together the troops already. He found himself reluctant to go down and fulfil his duties, as if invisible arms were embracing him, telling him, begging him not to go, that he was going too fast. He breathed in, and instead elected to stop thinking, and then stop feeling.

He was faintly aware of how his feet were carrying him to the open marshalling area. There was a dim realisation of the clamour of the host of angels, of the smorgasbord of wing shapes and colours united by a white uniform, and of the thirst for blood. There was chanting now, and Raphael blinked, once, twice, and heard.

_Infernalia. Delenda. Sunt. Infernalia. Delenda. Sunt._

Hell must be destroyed. Yes, that was a prerequisite (for what?). Hell must be destroyed. They believed, and as is the case with any society, Raphael felt passion burn up inside him like molten metal, thickening in his throat, almost too painful and overwhelming to bear. He swallowed despite it and struck his staff against the ground thrice.

“You all know what you need to do, where you need to be. Holy weapons at the front. Everyone else in legions. Trust each other with your lives. S’necessary that we fight as one. See you all on the other side.”

Sandalphon was the first to shout in acclaim. The rest followed, and despite the fact that this was the Heavenly Choir, it sounded to Raphael more like the roar of the Beast.

Uriel raised her hands, and her wings, iridescent and metallic, fanned out. From the inside, the Presence grew inside her until even looking at her was too bright to bear. Raphael shielded his eyes, ears still ringing with the shouts of angels, and when he uncovered his eyes, they were on Earth, and the angels were still chanting.

There was an army opposite, matching them with an equally vast array of wing colours, the only difference being that they were dressed wholly in black. Between them lay a group of rocks, and Raphael was nudged by a memory that called it _Stonehenge_. The fields were vast, the sky clear, as if the heavens themselves wanted to glorify the battle and show the world the stage on which the final scene of God’s play would play out. As the Archangels shifted into a united front, standing beside each other, Raphael looked behind him at the hardened faces of the angel host.

Silence fell, and it was smothering.

Michael led the way. “Charge!” she commanded, and they rushed forth against the enemy, some screaming with fear, others in savage delight. The two sides clashed in awful dissonance, and soon, Raphael couldn’t tell the difference between the cries of an angel and the cries of a demon. They all perished the same, angels leaking gold blood into the hungry dirt, demons bleeding black, like ink.

Where the angels wielded traditional instruments of war, gold and silver swords and bows and staffs, the demons had chosen the modern alternatives. Guns and grenades and crossbows, mixed in with some medieval weapons like morningstars, were raised to both attack and defend. It was a clash of antiquity and the modern age, yet their battle itself had been ever-present. Their war, in equal parts a mix of madness and excitement and fear, was the perfect cocktail for disaster. Or, as some would prefer to call it, Armageddon.

Raphael channelled his energy into a barrier that encircled him, standing still and focusing on healing those who had not been fatally wounded. The two armies were evenly matched, though it was hard to tell in the frenzy. Then, the ground rumbled, and it burst open in a yawning abyss, split by the head of a grotesque beast.

Rather, the Beast, with Beelzebub themself atop its ugly head. A lone figure leapt into flight to meet it. It was Michael, Raphael sensed, whose duty it was to fight and slay it. But something beat against his barrier, and he grunted with effort to sustain it.

“I never trusted you,” he heard the demon scream at him as he swung a huge mace above his head to slam into the angelic barrier again. “Traitor!” A swarm of flies blocked Raphael’s line of sight, then parted to reveal Beelzebub’s javelin coming right at him. The barrier cracked, javelin still stuck in it, smoking, and he almost didn’t register the swing of the mace that drove it home like a nail. He dodged, and an angel fell to the ground beside him, struck.

Raphael glanced at the fallen angel long enough to see that she had blonde hair.

Aziraphale was distracted momentarily when he saw the golden barrier around Raphael go down, but he couldn’t afford a lapse in concentration. Two demons jumped him with one mind, claws brandished, snarling, and Aziraphale snarled back as he heaved the flaming sword over his head and towards them. They leapt out of the way, hissing.

Aziraphale saw in their eyes the same antagonistic glare that he had seen in the rest of the angels and thought that they weren’t so different after all. The sounds of explosions and gunshots and metal clanging rang in his ears, and he struggled to find his balance on the flat earth.

“Move!” Aziraphale dodged to the left as a beam of holy energy came from behind him, blasting off one of the demons’ heads. He raised his sword just in time to block the gnashing teeth and swiping hands. They were close enough for Aziraphale to smell the rot from the demon’s mouth.

He pushed a little harder against the demon holding his sword back, and they toppled to the ground, wrestling in the dirt soaked with blood. The demon wailed as it felt the holy flames, and Aziraphale went to his little happy place as he closed his eyes and drove the point of the sword down. He imagined he was in the Ritz, glass clinking with Crowley, and realised with a shudder that he couldn’t remember what Crowley had looked like. He tried to ignore the fact that he couldn’t quite remember what Crowley had sounded like, either.

When he opened his eyes, Raphael had been pushed back by Hastur, Duke of Hell, and the two exchanged blows in front of him, mace against staff. They were also shouting at each other, but the clamour of war rendered mute their verbal conflict, and Aziraphale looked over at Michael, who was fighting alone against the beast. She dived at the eyes, a lone Tinkerbell-like figure against the clear blue sky, and the Beast howled, swatting at her with its various limbs. It was getting harder not to step on corpses now, and both armies had grown significantly thinner.

He heard Raphael’s hoarse voice shout while panting from the exertion of a fight. “I’m. Not. Crowley.” Aziraphale looked over to see Hastur pinned to the ground, both of them having forgone their weapons, with Raphael’s hands on his throat, shockingly blue wings spread out as if to assert his dominion. He turned away in anticipation of what was to come and covered his ears, but he still heard Hastur’s scream and Raphael’s victorious laugh as he ripped the demon’s throat out.

Aziraphale ran to Raphael, crushing underfoot the bodies of fallen angels and demons, and kept guard beside him as the Archangel heaved and drew in breath. White seemed to be overwhelming black now, and he had almost breathed a sigh of relief when the abyss opened by the Beast yawned yet wider, and a huge red figure, lumps in all the wrong places, emerged from it, horns and all.

“Lucifer,” he breathed, beginning to quake.

Then there were screams, unclear whether angel or demon, along the battlefield as Lucifer breathed flame across it. The fire burnt until it had consumed wholly that which it had latched onto, not spreading, but assassin-like in its accuracy and commitment to its target.

He turned to Raphael. “Feeling alright?”

“S’not going to get better.”

“Need a hand?”

Aziraphale steadied Raphael as he rose slowly, beginning to ask what they should do next. But Raphael lurched forward suddenly, eyes wide, and almost dragged Aziraphale to the ground as he crumpled, sword lodged between two plates of armour in his back as golden blood stained his white tunic. Aziraphale froze, unable to do anything but watch and comprehend for the first few moments.

Then he screamed and swung his sword blindly, failing to strike the demon who had snuck up behind them. The minutes – or were they seconds? – bled into each other and became one massive blur as Aziraphale raged against the world around him. Had he killed the demon yet? He continued to swing his sword, not caring where it struck.

Aziraphale had respected both Crowley and Raphael, and for him to meet such an end, so undignified, so lacking in honour, was insulting to what he had been. Crowley had been so special to him, Raphael so unforgettable, and the unremarkable way in which he fell to the ground, killed by an otherwise unremarkable member of Lucifer’s army, yet another soldier lost to the machine of war, brought tears to his eyes. Aziraphale sobbed openly, raging, raging, against the dying of his light, and cursed the unfairness of it all. None of them had deserved this. None of them had wanted this. So, unable to blame anyone else, Aziraphale looked to God and pleaded for it all to end.

Silence. Not that Aziraphale had come to expect anything else at this point.

And as the world burst into flames and he burst into tears and everything burned around him, Aziraphale screamed until only the shadow of a whisper could be emitted from his throat, until the holy fire of his sword burned almost hot enough to sear him.

“Somebody killed my best friend,” Aziraphale shouted at everyone and everything he swung his sword at, shaking, his voice loud once again in its dying throes. “Somebody killed my best friend.”

Crowley’s hand twitched, and time stopped.


	7. Where the Heart Is

There are two unquestionable forces in the world. The Divine, which is neither good nor bad – only right. And Death, which is inevitable.

Crowley had tried his whole life not to answer to either. And, for a while, it had worked. They had averted the Apocalypse. _They_. That single syllable was a dream come to life, a word he’d never get used to saying, laden with six thousand years of longing and hope.

And hope had been the problem. Hope had made him lax and comfortable, a parasite that had latched onto his insides and sucked his bones dry, leaving them weak and brittle when he needed to run away. The dangerous thing about hope was that it left Crowley with just enough to keep standing, fooling him into thinking that he was undefeatable, so that it could keep feeding on him.

The last thing he remembered was thrashing as he was restrained to a chair. Purple eyes. White tiles. A smile that bordered on an animalistic baring of teeth.

But it was dark here. So dark. The cold bit at Crowley through his leather jacket and numbed the rope burn on his wrists. The space was empty – no walls, no roof, no floor – but for Crowley, it managed to retain some sense of normalcy despite its perplexing features. It felt _right_.

He almost didn’t notice the swish of time-weary rags that melted into the darkness. It was like ink. Then smoke. Then it just _was_.

WE MEET AGAIN, said Death, I TOLD YOU THAT I’D BE BACK.

“This the end, then? Seems a bit underwhelming to me.” Crowley joked despite himself. Death’s voice did not travel in the air between them; it went straight into the cavern of his mind, booming, and he couldn’t cover his ears to block it out. Crowley couldn’t stop himself talking, laughing to hide how much he was shaking, keeping his knees from knocking together with the last vestige of his strength. “Guess I should say sorry, huh? Not exactly dressed for our first, uh date.” Hell, it couldn’t be like this. There was so much he had left to do. So much of the world left to see with Aziraphale.

He didn’t want to go.

YOU PRESUME TOO MUCH, it replied. I HAVE NOT COME TO TAKE YOU YET.

Crowley’s snark withered and left his mouth as a vague sound of confusion.

SHE SEEKS AN AUDIENCE.

Something flared inside him that drowned out the fear. Rejection. Questions. Anger. “She _what _now? What, after six thousand years?”

YOU CANNOT REFUSE.

“Oh, I know.” He paused. “Then what are _you_ doing here?”

YOU TOOK THE LONG WAY AROUND.

Crowley’s anger softened, bleeding into surprise. He couldn’t stop the laughter falling from his mouth. “You – Death – my private chauffeur to a meeting with the Almighty! What an honour.”

SILENCE.

“Riiight. Sorry.” He didn’t wipe the taunting smile from his face.

YOU DO NOT BELONG HERE. BUT ONE DAY, YOU WILL. Death reached out for him. Crowley shrank back involuntarily. YOU ARE NOT AS BRAVE AS YOU THINK YOURSELF TO BE.

Crowley’s fear returned, pressing on his sternum like a cold finger. But a blink took him from the dark into the light – a blinding light that he had only ever stood before once. Bright enough to force anyone to bow their heads, regardless if they were doing it out of reverence. Bright enough to sear itself into Crowley’s mind. That finger became two hands doing CPR on his chest, pressing down with enough strength to break his ribs.

“You, you’re…”

_Yes, I am._

She spoke in the same way Death did, voice bypassing the air between them and venturing straight into his mind. But it did not echo. It was crisp and clear and the type of voice that was somewhere _just_ between consoling and reprimanding. The sort of whisper he didn’t have lean in to hear. A cadence that was forgotten as soon as it was heard.

Crowley didn’t know what to say. Even after all those nights spent lying awake, planning out speeches and pleas and responses to questions, no words came to his mind. He was as unprepared as he had been at the very beginning. For someone who was accustomed to surviving with nothing but his wits, his mind was uncomfortably empty. Crowley was no longer armed with clever quips and biting remarks, and as he stood before God Herself, he felt as naked as a newborn.

A word tumbled out of his mouth.

“Why?”

_Because this is the way it is. I believe you call it… the Ineffable Plan._

“I… I don’t understand.”

_Right now, you are the Joker in a deck of cards. You do not belong anywhere in the Plan. But you are needed._

Crowley’s chest heaved as he sighed. “Is that all we are to you? Pawns in the Great Game of Life?”

_The universe is not a game of chess. Here you are, again, asking questions. Haven’t you learnt?_

“I’ve learnt, alright. Learnt that asking questions is the only way I’ll get anywhere.” He wanted to look up. But the light was too strong and even raising his head slightly made him hiss from the pain. “What are you going to do? Make me fall again?”

_No. _

“Then what?”

_You will know. Look._

Beneath Crowley’s suspended feet, the white emptiness melted into a scene of a frozen battlefield. He caught sight of the Beast, front legs raised in the air, prepared to slam down on the angels beneath it. Lucifer, rising from a gaping crack in the earth, misshapen red body red like a boil, towering above everything else. Glints of gold armour in the light. And fire. Fire was everywhere, burning the ground and angels and demons indiscriminately.

Seeing war was nothing new for Crowley. But he’d thought he gotten used to it by now. The thought of it made him sick to his stomach. At the end of the day, there were no winners. There would never be any winners in war.

So what if one side claimed victory? They would have lost soldiers, soldiers who were also people with their own lives, whom other people cared about, who functioned as one cog wheel in a system that wouldn’t quite be the same without them. But then they would forget the war. They would live on, complacent, and turmoil would be rear its ugly head again.

But people liked to fight. Hell, angels liked to fight. Because they can never stand to be wrong. They can never stand to listen to the other side.

And despite his best efforts, the war had begun again. Despite Aziraphale’s efforts, too. The thought of his name, the name of that angel – _his _angel – washed the fear from his mind, and he found himself thinking clearly.

“Aziraphale. What happened to him?”

_See._

Pictures flashed before Crowley. He saw himself dressed in a white suit, silver watch on his wrist, gazing at Aziraphale with cold eyes. Crowley had always hated how emotionless his eyes could look. That was how he had looked before… before everything had happened. Before his real life had started. That angel – he wasn’t going to call it an Archangel – walked without the burden of wrongdoing on his shoulders, without the dull ache of badly-healed wing fractures on his back, without the heavy feeling of incompetence settled on his lower spine.

He almost envied that angel.

And then, there they were, sitting on the park bench, too far away from each other. But there was nothing connecting them. They sat the same, prim, perched on their seat like little birds, and Crowley scowled at how that angel had his face. The bench had never looked that empty – he had always sprawled out across it in a position that was one-quarter sitting and three-quarters lying down.

A different time, and Aziraphale turning, closing the door of the bookshop, lower lip wobbling like the place no longer brought the comfort of a home.

A museum tour, and Crowley could see how hard Aziraphale was trying to please that damned angel. Trying to make him remember something, perhaps. That angel gazed upon parts of Crowley’s life with cold apathy, just like every other angel probably would. Except Aziraphale.

It always came back to Aziraphale. And he always went back to the Ritz.

Crowley watched his name fall from those angelic lips and Aziraphale backpedalled, trying to take it back. Seeing his own face contorted in rage – rage aimed at Aziraphale – scared Crowley. Watching himself spit derisive words towards the person he… loved most. It reminded him of exactly what he was capable of, even after he was no longer affiliated with Hell.

Then the preparations for war. Crowley watched as _he _was the one to make Aziraphale feel like he was less than he was worth. As he was the one who enforced the rules. As he was the one who walked away again, leaving Aziraphale alone.

The call to arms. Those blue wings sparkling with silver undertones, silver which had reacted with sulphur to turn the colour of tar. Aziraphale helping him up when he fell to the ground. Aziraphale turning, screaming, crying. A flaming sword that burnt the very person using it.

The word “Aziraphale” overflowed his mind and spilled from his lips. Crowley found himself yelling.

“How could you? How could you just _let _them?” He spotted a flaming sword beneath him. Then he spotted the angel holding it.

_Some wars must end. Others must begin. It is the Plan._

“You said I wasn’t part of your bloody Plan!” Crowley didn’t get a response. “What do you want me to do?”

_You’ll know_.

“You always say that! But I don’t know – I haven’t ever had a plan – I’ve just made it up along the way and hoped for the best.”

_The will of the world is not for you to speculate on._

“But it _is_. I’m the one who has to live in that world. What do you do? Sit up here all day and watch? This isn’t _your _world anymore. How much of this looks like Eden? How much of this is the same?” Crowley spat, “You gave us the clay, so don’t punish us for trying to shape it into something for ourselves.”

_And what can you do if I choose to punish you?_

“What _can _I do? Just sit there and take it, of course.” Crowley let out a mocking laugh. “But let’s ask this: what can _you _do?” The resulting silence was almost amused. “Send me back.”

_I will not._

“You’re the Almighty – you can do anything. Send. Me. Back.” He glowered as best he could, given the lighting. “He needs me.”

_And you can fix everything?_

“Give me the chance!” Crowley screamed. “Send me back!” He looked up, going against every nerve that told him not to. When he looked at _it_, the source of the light, his eyes burned like all the pools of sulphur in the world had been poured into them. The white-hot light flowed into his blood like mercury, scorching the inside of his veins and arteries. His skin prickled and drew tight like it was ready to burst open.

Crowley forgot how long he’d been staring into that bright void. Half a minute? Half an hour? Half a day? Prolonged exposure didn’t increase the pain. How could it increase, when it had already pushed so far past his limits? There was nothing to compare it to anymore, and he was almost grateful.

He had a vague idea that the void was looking back into him. He was unable to look away, even as he was forced to his knees, mouth still agape in a silent scream. To anyone else, it would have looked like he was stunned by a beautiful work of art.

Some voice in the back of his mind told him to stop, that he couldn’t take it any longer. Crowley told it to shut up. If this was how he died, so be it.

And there came that voice again. Like a needle piercing his ear.

_Let me tell you a story._

_In the Beginning, there was a god. A god who made companions so she wouldn’t be lonely. But one of her companions stopped liking her, and she got angry. That companion was called Lucifer. The god told everyone to call him Satan. She told everyone to call him evil. And that was their first mistake._

_Because Lucifer wasn’t evil. He was just _different_. _

_If we’re going by what “Satan” means to people nowadays, then that god is Satan. Convincing everyone that there was a choice is her greatest feat to date. _

_So, Crowley. Good is evil. Depravity is virtue. No matter which side you fight on, you’ll still be fighting on mine. You can’t win._

“Watch me,” Crowley forced out, and was hurled down from where he knelt by an invisible hand. As he fell, a whisper kissed his ear.

_Well done. That’s my child. _

He didn’t have time to wonder how much of what he had heard was a lie. A soft suggestion in his mind said that he had gazed into the abyss and convinced it to work with him.

• • • • •

Crowley landed back in his own body, feeling like he had just fallen from the sky, blood at triple its boiling point under his skin. He was bleeding. It barely ached. He rose to his feet in a white suit that wasn’t his own, wobbling as he did so, flexing his fingers and amazed by how easily he controlled them. His limbs (were they _his _limbs, still?) were light.

Was this how gods felt?

Black wings fanned out behind him, adorned with irregular splashes of blue, like someone had tried to paint over the sky at midnight, in denial of a new day. They began to beat, and Crowley rose into the air, gazing down at the battle that had resumed.

Wartime might have been the only time angels and demons were truly equal. He still hated the very sight of it.

“Stop.” It took only one whisper for the whole battlefield to stop. Everyone had heard it, as if it had been projected into their minds. “Go back.” No-one moved. Crowley pointed somewhere – it didn’t matter where – he could see above and below, in front of himself, behind himself, to his left, to his right. He made a crushing motion with that hand and the ground collapsed where he had pointed. “I said, go back. _Now_.”

Crowley shrieked, a piercing note that might once have been beautiful. His skin crawled as he felt his fingertips blaze with power that was not his own. It had to go. All the death and ruin and everything that reminded him of how unfair the world was. A chess game where only one player could move.

He didn’t want to level the playing field. He wanted to break it so that no-one would ever have to play again.

“Why do you even care about who wins and loses? You’ve all lost. Your friends. Your leaders. Just…” Something hot ran down his face. It smelled like iron. “Go back and mourn the ones who couldn’t return with you. Know that it’s your fault. None of them deserved this.”

Lucifer laughed. “And why should we obey you?”

Crowley’s head whipped around, eyes aglow with the light of thousands of supernovae exploding at once. He raised one hand and Lucifer rose into the air with it, horns and all. With a flick of the wrist, Crowley sent the lumpy red form, all eight hundred tonnes still thrashing as Lucifer tried to gain purchase on the air, barrelling into the Beast.

They fell back down the crack in the earth whence they came. Crowley listened for the thump with they hit the bottom. It sounded like the skin of a war drum breaking. The ground trembled.

“You obey the strong. That is why you listen to me.” Angel and demon alike, unbidden, fled from the field like water from the beach just before a tsunami, clambering to take their fallen with them in one final, rare act of selflessness.

Crowley couldn’t tell whether he was laughing or crying as he wound winds around his fingers and sent them smashing into the earth, watching with pleasure as the ground split. The fires blazed even stronger, tearing across what was left of the grass. Crowley’s head was weightless; his long hair was not constrained by the laws of gravity. He was giddy with power as he scratched lines across the floodplains, leaving deep troughs where Life once rested her gentle head.

It felt so good to see it all disappear. No reminders of what had happened left. As if it had never happened at all. Crowley could get used to this. Having the power to erase.

He descended. As his foot touched the ground, a scream tore its way out of his throat. It hurt – worse than gazing into the light – worse than anything else he had suffered. The burning rippled through his body, through every muscle and tendon and bone, all of which were in danger of being ripped apart.

Crowley was on the ground, a comet that had forgotten how to extinguish itself, burning inside and out. Everything was red.

Strings of curses left his lips, each more damning than the rest, and he was sure that blood was running down his face. Crowley clawed at his eyes with sharp nails but found nothing there to scratch. Just hollow holes in his face that burnt worse than holy water. He attacked his own face instead, hoping to draw out pain that could distract him from everything – pain that, if not more painful, he could at least control.

It didn’t work.

Amidst the sound of fire crackling and his own screams, he heard another voice.

“–ley. Crowley, please! Listen.” He would know that voice anywhere. Crowley heard a sharp cry as the voice’s owner reached through flames which would blister his skin if he believed them to be anything but harmless because they had come from Crowley. There it was again, that stupid, endearing faith that Crowley would never hurt him. Aziraphale cradled Crowley’s face in his hands, voice like cold, soothing water from a mountain spring. “You’re alright now. It’s going to be alright. It’s over.” Crowley collapsed into warm arms that felt like home even in the middle of a ruined battlefield.

“You’re bleeding, Angel.”

“It’s fine. You’re okay now.” Crowley felt warm tears drip onto his face and the skin on his face smooth over as it healed. “We’re okay now.”

As the light that had replaced his eyes began to fade, Crowley’s last whisper of divine power came in the words “come back home”. The grass returned to the plains, just as they do after a long winter. The earth built itself back up, resilient as ever, like it had never been torn open and trampled on for war.

When he opened his eyes again, they had returned to the way they had been for millennia. Topazes set in a white sea. Crowley looked at Aziraphale – _Aziraphale_ – kneeling with him, and his vision blurred with salty tears. They were almost touching, and Crowley knew exactly what Aziraphale's skin would feel like under his fingers.

He could see all the colours in Aziraphale’s eyes. Azure. Zaffre. The colour that graced the edges of icebergs and the colour of blueberry macaroons.

Then their lips met, and they ignored the sweat and tears and vague taste of blood. Crowley was reminded what oxygen was – it was this, it was something he couldn’t live without, something he needed now, now, _now. _Their noses collided – curse them – but it didn’t matter because Aziraphale angled his face _just _so and then they fit together like stars in a constellation.

A clash of teeth, and they parted, gasping, laughing. Crowley smiled, drinking in the sight of his angel.

He had come home at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for waiting for this update. 
> 
> I've been very busy with my work for the Good Omens Big Bang, which you can read [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22284448), if you're interested!
> 
> Only one chapter left! :)


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